


no big surprise (you turned out this way)

by sadrobotboy (bruisesandcontusions)



Category: Bandom
Genre: F/M, Implied Parental Abuse, trans boy!mikey, trans girl!pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruisesandcontusions/pseuds/sadrobotboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for a prompt on tumblr: <b>"hey sorry but i kind of ran away from home so let me stay over tonight?”</b>. i owe this all to the frankly incredible <a href="http://interlude-holiday.tumblr.com/">riya</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	no big surprise (you turned out this way)

Pete looks like a mess. Her hair is tangled and in need of a wash, her lips are chapped between the open cuts, and a whole side of her face is red from bruising. She looks like she just had a tussle with a Land Rover and lost. She looks like she thought sorry would truly make it better once again.

Mikey stands in the doorway in his Star Wars pyjamas, a hand pressed to his mouth in shock that's quickly turning to horror. "Pete..." 

He doesn't need to ask what happened. It's the one truth they never talk about in all their rants and schemes and great plans for the future, even when it's staring them straight in the face. Right now, though, it's slightly harder to ignore. 

Pete smiles and it looks painful. "Aren't you going to let me in?" she asks, her voice firmly light, almost amused, even though she sounds so close to breaking. Mikey nods, unable to say anything as he steps back into the kitchen, letting Pete come through. 

Normally she's a bottled supernova of energy, bouncing through the house in a whirlwind of purple lipstick and bruised knees, but now her movements are careful and subdued, white knuckles clutching at handfuls of her threadbare hoodie. It's 2am, so Mikey appreciates the circumspection, but it just feels wrong to see Pete this quiet. 

"Gerard's at Ray's house," Mikey explains, sitting down at the table opposite Pete. Her hands are shaking against the lacquered surface and he takes them in his own almost as a reflex gesture. They're freezing to the touch. 

"Can I have a drink?" Pete's voice is so timid that Mikey almost wants to cry. 

He blinks away the tears while he waits for the kettle to boil, forcing his face into neutrality as he brings two hot chocolates back to the table. Pete doesn't even complain that it isn't coffee, and that worries Mikey even more. 

They sip quietly, every noise loud in the early hours. Eventually Pete puts her mug down, sitting up straighter and wincing at the sudden movement. Mikey doesn't need to see the bruises along her shoulder and down her side to know they're there, vivid red like Pete's lipstick against his skin when she writes him letters while he sleeps. 

"I can't go back this time," she tells him, and Mikey nobly ignores the crack of her voice, even though his heart aches for her. "I won't do it, Mikey. They can't make me." 

Mikey nods because he knows. It stings the way truth always does, but they both know Pete can't stay. Not at her own house, not at his - even though she knows the door to the Way residence is always open for her. It feels as though he's been waiting for this day for months, ever since Pete's first black eye and an unspoken promise to stay quiet if she could stay conscious, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. 

"I'm going to clean up your mouth," he tells Pete. There's nothing else to say. Pete doesn't need anything Mikey’s thinking right now - not about her so-called-dad, or how Mikey should have been there to protect her, or where the hell Pete plans on going now. 

Pete nods in ascent, following Mikey into the kitchen. She watches as he wets a clean cloth, and hardly flinches when he presses it to her mouth, sweeping away the dried blood and dead skin until the cuts look raw and new. Mikey has to lean past Pete to reach the top shelf of the medicine cupboard, the soft cotton of his pyjamas catching for a second on her bitten-down black nails. 

Thankful his own hands are clean, Mikey applies Sudocrem with steady precision, feeling for the life of him like a parent tending to a fallen child. Bandages over scraped knees aren't enough to patch Pete back together these days, but the least Mikey can do is try. 

"Good as new," he tells her softly when he's done, then almost wants to laugh at how little that means. His thumb lingers at the corner of Pete's mouth, white cream smearing beneath his touch, and Mikey could swear he feels time stop. 

Pete leans in and kisses him. It's measured and gentle - it has to be, to stop Mikey's hard work being to no avail - and Pete tastes like zinc from the medicine and iron from the blood. Mikey kisses back with a desperation he didn't know he was holding back, like his brain is only just registering that after tonight, Pete isn't coming back. 

Mikey is suddenly aware of his chest, and the fact that he's not wearing a binder under his pyjamas. He has a sudden urge to shrink away and curl into himself until Pete can't see him, until he doesn't exist. He pulls away, dizzy from the lack of air and his sudden, pounding heartbeat. 

"I can't do this, Pete," he whispers, feeling ashamed. "Not now. I'm sorry." He's only aware that he's crying when he feels the soft brush of Pete's thumb against his cheek. It doesn't feel like pity, just an apology. 

"Mikey..." Pete's voice is low, the way it always sounds at 3am when they've finished dissecting the universe together. Mikey wishes right now were one of those times, a halfway point instead of an ending. Pete doesn't touch him anywhere but his face, hands against his cheeks as she watches his eyes for shooting comets. "MikeyWay, let's go to bed." 

They get changed and brush their teeth together and it really does feel like a sleepover, except that Pete can't stop wincing as she pulls on Mikey's old Metallica t-shirt and Mikey can't stop staring at her mouth. It's not the same. It never will be. 

Mikey's twin bed is really too small for two growing trans kids, but they're well used to the sprawl of tangled limbs by now. They sleep chest to back as always, Mikey facing outwards and Pete tucked against the wall so she can't fall out when she inevitably starts wriggling. 

Pete's breathing is slow and even, but Mikey knows her well enough to tell that she's not asleep. He flips onto his side and watches her until she cracks one eye open. 

"You're a shitty fake-sleeper," Mikey tells her, managing a tired half-smile that Pete doesn't quite return. 

"You're a good kisser." Her voice is matter-of-fact, but it doesn't quite hide the regret in her eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Mikey mutters, cheeks flushing at the memory, but Pete shakes her head. 

"I'm sorry I'm so fucked up," she whispers, and Mikey shushes her with quiet, sleepy noises and hand in her hair. 

"Not fucked up," he tells her, leaning in so close their noses brush. "Not broken, just bent, remember?" 

He offers a pinkie finger: their long-running gesture of promise and conciliation. Pete pauses for a moment before smiling - carefully, so the newly-formed scabs on her lips remain intact. "Just bent," she agrees, linking her finger with Mikey's and squeezing. "Love you, Mikes." 

"Love you too, Pete." 

In the morning Pete's bruises will be mottled purple and the light will be less kind to her scars. Tomorrow there will be decisions that neither of them want to make. Right now Pete falls asleep with soft snores and muttered nonsense, and Mikey watches until he knows she's safe. 


End file.
